Hutch had spent a good chunk of his day researching Niall Dempsey, trying to come up with some telltale evidence that he was currently linked to or funding the Provisional IRA.
He’d come up empty, frustrated, and worried sick about the reality that Casey was focusing her investigation on a probable IRA terrorist.
Sure enough, just as Marc predicted, the FBI’s London Legat had contacted him several hours after his conference call with Casey and Marc to say the Police Service of Northern Ireland and MI5 were requesting his assistance in locating Sean Donovan, a.k.a. Silver Finger. The Irish authorities had already set the wheels in motion, having taken the bloodied shirt that belonged to Donovan out of its evidence locker for DNA testing. The results were expected to be in sometime tomorrow. In the interim, Hutch had forwarded the lab results on Niall Dempsey to them so the comparison could be made ASAP.
Hutch had followed all the rules to a tee. He should be pleased. He wasn’t. This case involved a lot more than identifying Dempsey and matching him with his real name and the crimes he had committed. That alone couldn’t happen fast enough to suit Hutch, so he could be an official part of the investigation.
But he already knew what the results would be. Because he knew Marc, and given what he’d told him and the certainty with which he spoke, FI had all but conclusive evidence that Niall Dempsey was a former IRA assassin.
What was driving Hutch crazy was the fact that—despite his promise to keep the NYPD out of his investigation for now—his every instinct was screaming that that prick was also Rose Flaherty’s killer, plus a threat to Fiona McKay.
Which made him a threat to Casey.
What the hell was she opening herself up to this time? How effective could Patrick’s security team be when pitted against an acclaimed assassin—a sniper who took people out with one bullet?
And how in God’s name could Hutch keep her safe?
He shoved back his chair and rose.
Technically, it was too soon for him to provide FBI surveillance on Dempsey. However, that didn’t mean he himself couldn’t keep an eye on the man. Yeah, it meant jumping the gun and bending the rules, but when it came to Casey’s safety, he’d done that before and he’d doubtless do it again.
No updates would be forthcoming from the UK until tomorrow.
Which freed up the rest of his day.
He knew exactly how he planned to spend it.
***
Peter frowned as he helped the professor settle himself on the sofa in the apartment’s living room. The old man had nodded off twice in the car, intermittently muttering aloud about stonemason tools and crisscrossing lines. He was now half-asleep, already lying down and pillowing his head on the cushioned arm of the sofa.
He’d be of no use to Niall now.
“I have to call Mr. Dempsey,” James murmured, confirming what Peter already knew. “We’re supposed to meet here, now.”
Making an executive decision, Peter went over and scooped up a folded blanket, shaking it out and covering the professor with it.
“You’re too tired for an in-depth conversation,” he said. “An hour or two’s wait won’t matter. I’ll call Mr. Dempsey for you and explain. If he disagrees, I’ll wake you so you can meet with him right away. Otherwise, I’ll let you sleep. I’ll go out and bring back some dinner. By then, you’ll feel rested and ready to tell Mr. Dempsey all the details of your discussion.”
James nodded, removing his spectacles and placing them on the end table beside him, propping his cane up against it.
“Thank you, Thomas.” His lids drooped. “I didn’t expect the day to be so draining. Please tell Mr. Dempsey—Niall—that I appreciate his patience.”
“I will.” Peter was already heading for the front door.
He’d make the call from the hallway and see if Niall wanted to be filled in in person, which Peter would gladly do. But after that, he was heading out to a decent pub to buy himself a couple of pints before picking up the professor’s dinner and returning to the apartment to make sure the old man was awake and clearheaded enough to meet with Niall about this insanely valuable hoard.
This assignment was getting more intriguing by the minute.
***
Niall had spent the hours that Blythe was with Fiona at Kelly’s, filling Donald in on the fact that he was being watched—unquestionably by Cobra—and arguing about what steps they were going to take.
Donald was furious that Niall hadn’t mentioned this before. Jaw tightly clenched, he waved away Niall’s protests and began making phone calls, talking to his contacts and hiring the right guys—guys who had the experience and the ability to safeguard Niall and to deal with armed killers.
The whole time Donald was talking, Niall was slamming around and cursing. He’d only given in because he knew Donald was right—he needed this level of protection where it came to Cobra.
That didn’t mean his own plan had changed. The minute he figured out the identity of the traitorous tout, he’d find him and put a bullet in his head.
Niall had only been home for a short while when his cell phone rang. He didn’t bother looking at the caller ID. The flip phone he’d given the professor was a dinosaur.
“Hello?” he answered.
“It’s me,” Peter replied. “Your professor is out cold on the sofa. My suggestion, given how much he has to tell you, is that you let him regain his strength. Trust me, he’s of no use to you right now.”
Niall ingested what Peter said as well as its implications.
“You know what Blythe and Fiona McKay discussed?” he asked carefully.
“I made sure to know. Because it wasn’t just Fiona and Blythe. The entire Forensic Instincts team was closeted in there behind locked doors. Whatever the girl was privy to, so were they.”
“Shit.” As pissed as Niall was, he wasn’t surprised. “I had a feeling this might happen. She’s probably told Casey Woods and her people everything she knows so they can solve their damn murder investigation and recover what I want.” He paused, weighing his next words. “How much did you overhear?”
Peter sighed. “Enough so you can stop keeping me in the dark, mate. I stood outside the door and listened. I only got bits and pieces. But I heard enough to know there’s some legendary hoard that’s buried here in the city and that there are a bunch of tapestry panels leading to it. It’s clearly worth a fortune. Obviously, you want to find it—and not to return it to some Irish museum.”
Niall blew out a breath. There were only two people on this earth that he trusted: Donald and Peter. Out of necessity, he’d already told the entire story to Donald. It seemed he was about to have to do the same thing with Peter. There’d been no reason to involve him until now. But circumstances had changed.
“I should have told you sooner,” he said. “The truth is I’m still used to counting on no one but myself. Thanks for having my back. Tell me what you heard. I’ll fill in the rest later. And of course, I’ll share the wealth with you, once the hoard is in my hands.”
“I won’t lie and say I wouldn’t love a portion of that amount of cash. But I’d help you anyway. You know that.”
“I do.” Niall felt a surge of gratitude and of relief. Not only could he now be open with Peter and ask for his help, but he didn’t any longer have to fabricate reasons to supply Peter with money. Even though he still intended to keep the hoard in its entirety rather than selling off its pieces—something Peter probably hadn’t thought about—he could still give his friend a seven-figure cash payment for his part in the recovery.
It was a win-win.
“Where are you now?” he asked.
“Right outside the professor’s apartment. Do you want me to come up?”
“Yes, right away.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Peter chuckled. “But after that, I’m headed to Quinn’s for a pint or two before I pick up dinner for the professor. All those hours of eavesdropping gave me quite a thirst.”
***
Despite his exhaustion, James found himself tossing and turning on the sofa. His eyelids were heavy and his body ached. But his mind wouldn’t shut down. It came as no surprise that he was overstimulated from the hours he’d spent at Forensic Instincts analyzing the symbols on the tapestry panels. He hadn’t wanted to leave, not without answers. Partly because of his fascination with finding the Vadrefjord Hoard, but even more so to help Fiona and to aid Forensic Instincts in finding Rose’s killer.
Still, pragmatism told him that in order to be of help to them, he needed to recoup his strength. In addition, he needed a clear mind to meet with Niall. And right now, he had neither the strength nor the clear mind.
He pushed himself to a sitting position. He’d make himself something warm and soothing to drink. Then, he’d turn off the end table lamp that Peter had left on for him. He always slept better in a dark room.
After picking up his cane, he made his way into the kitchen and looked around. Niall had gone to the trouble of having everything from Assam tea and a teapot, so James could take authentic Irish tea, to coffee and a coffeemaker, should he prefer that.
He smiled as he saw the apologetically tucked-away boxes of herbal tea. Niall had doubtless left those in the event that James wanted something quick, easy, and relaxing. And in this case, that idea was spot-on. As much as James loved his true Irish tea, he hadn’t the strength to start the process of steeping and preparing. He glanced at the boxes of herbal tea, spotted chamomile, and within minutes, was limping his way back to the sofa to enjoy a cup. He draped the blanket across his lap and sipped until he felt the slumbering effects of the tea. Then, he set his teacup down on the coffee table and lay his cane alongside him on the floor. He removed his spectacles and reached over to place them on the end table and to turn off the lamp.
The glittering of metal caught his eye. He pushed his spectacles back on his nose, leaned over, and peered at the floor. A slim object of some kind was wedged between the sofa and the end table.
“What’s this?” he murmured.
He worked his fingers down until they closed around the object and he was able to pull it free.
By the light cast by the still-lit lamp, he could see it was a badge of some kind, most likely a cap badge given its construction.
He studied it thoughtfully. White metal that used to have a brass coating, now worn away. Not precious metal but some kind of plating. And an interesting shape—round, but with edges that looked like wings around a seven-sided star.
“Fascinating,” he said aloud.
Cobra’s cell phone vibrated in his front pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Sure enough, it was the surveillance app he’d created—the one linked to the bug he’d planted in the old Irish guy’s apartment. No easy feat, given the building security. But as always, he’d found a way around it, coming in through the parking garage under the building. He’d worn a black sweatshirt, with a hood pulled over his head and shielding his face so the camera couldn’t catch him.
His surveillance app had opened a window, which meant a conversation of some kind was going on.
Cobra tapped the Listen button.
It seemed the old guy was talking to himself.
And it didn’t take him long to figure out the object of his mutterings.
Unaware that he was being monitored, James continued scrutinizing the badge and talking aloud.
“The raised writing is Gaelic,” he muttered. “Óglaıġ na hÉıreann.” A pause. “Soldiers of Ireland,” he translated. “Astonishing. This must date back to the early 1900s. An antique that was dropped by its owner. I must give it to Niall so he can return it.”
James turned the badge over in his hands. “Cobra,” he mused. Someone had proudly taken the trouble of having the word engraved on the back.
“Perhaps this was a gift.” James set the badge down carefully on the end table, yawning as he did. “A half hour,” he murmured. “Just to rest. Then I’ll call Niall.”
He settled himself on the sofa, pulled the blanket over him, and shut his eyes.
Cobra was enraged, as much by his own carelessness as by the old man’s discovery.
He’d carried his good luck charm for decades now, ever since he’d killed that MI5 fuck who’d been working undercover in Northern Ireland and had used that cap badge as part of his cover. It had belonged to one of the original uprising leaders in the 1916 Easter Rising, and the MI5 guy had gotten his hands on it, using it as part of his street cred to show the IRA that he was legit. But the IRA had dug deep enough into his cover to make it unravel. Then they’d called on Cobra to do the hit. Hell, he’d been working for the RUC, and the instructions from his handler were to let any RUC source or MI5 undercover agents go and make it look like the information on them was bad. Screw that. The thrill of the kill was too great, and besides, he’d hated the guy anyway. So he’d beaten him senseless, shot him twice behind the ear, and watched him die an agonizing death.
He knew the risk he was taking by keeping the badge as a souvenir—even more so after he’d engraved it with his code name. But it had become a trophy for his most risky kill. No one killed an MI-5 agent and lived to tell about it. No one but him. This was his private medal, his self-bestowed badge of honor. He wasn’t letting it go despite the fact that both the RUC and MI5 knew his signature kill, so if they ever got wind of the badge’s whereabouts, they’d manage to find him, at which point he’d be a dead man. Besides, he knew the IRA would quietly make him a hero for this hit, and he just couldn’t resist the lure of being the focus of so much admiration.
And now, he’d set himself up, stupid shit that he was. He must have dropped the badge when he installed the bug.
He had to get it back.